


SS: RECRUIT NEW MEMBER

by Jakebot_Archive



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gift Exchange, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-20 20:28:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13725372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jakebot_Archive/pseuds/Jakebot_Archive
Summary: Made for the @homestuckvalentine on tumblr as a gift for @phoneyogurt





	SS: RECRUIT NEW MEMBER

He’s there when you walk in. Has been for a while, by the looks of it. There’s an untouched glass of water on the table, fogged up from the melting ice, and beside it, an elegantly curved hat. 

_Tasteful_ , you think. Nice to see someone who knows the importance of good headwear. You appreciate it silently, eyeing him from where you stand by the door. 

You’ve heard good things about him. Brutal. Loyal. Efficient. Knack for violence. You’ve had your eyes on him for well over a year. Got in touch through Scratch a few months ago, right before you killed him. Satisfying, that. 

He’s sat by the far left of the room, in a booth curving against the wall towards the open kitchen, right in the back. The man himself looks positively deadly, all muscle and brute force. He glowers at you, arms crossed. You don’t scare for shit, but you appreciate the effort. Guy clearly knows what he’s doing. You have high hopes.

It’d be a waste to have to kill him. You hope he delivers, for both your sakes.

In the other corner Die and Crowbar sit huddled together, eyes on each other. Die has his doll in one hand, the other on Crowbar’s upper arm. You’re glad you don’t pay them. They’re supposed to be on watch, not playing at charms. Crowbar smiles, leans in to whisper in his ear. Die laughs, lets his hand drop down to his elbow. Useless leprechauns. 

You flip the sign to CLOSED behind you and stroll towards Hearts Boxcars, butterfly knives strapped to your thighs and gun in hand. He doesn’t blink. Good. You don’t need any scaredy cats under your command. Too high-risk for the little they give.

The Felt bar is empty save for the four of you and the butler hiding in the kitchen. You hear him bustling about, hooves clicking on the floor. He’s learned to keep himself scarce. You don’t think anyone else will bother you, either. 

The heavy smoke of Snowman’s cigarettes hang in the air and you nod at her, standing by the back door in a three second flash of black fabric and mocking smile. She comes and goes as she pleases. You aren’t fool enough to look for her when she doesn’t want to be found.

Die and Crowbar turn to where she stood, uneasy. Boxcars doesn’t. He keeps his eyes trained on you, looking you up and down once before settling at your eyes. “So,” he says, “yer finally here, huh? Thought fer sure yer ass was skippin’ out.” 

His voice comes out in a growl, smooth gravel in your ears. It’s pleasant. Something you could listen to without itching for a blade. Guy has no volume control, but you’re used to that. You slip down onto the plush velvet green seat and put your gun on the table. He seems unimpressed. Almost looks bored, like he’s done this before. You don’t doubt he has.

You stab clean through his hat, glass falling to the floor in a crash. Water drips from the side of the table, the room going quiet. He raises his eyebrows at you, puts his elbows on the table and leans forwards. 

“Happened to like that hat.”

“Did you do what i asked you to?” You bite out, slipping your Ace of Spades out of your sleeve. It sits on the table, ready to be used. You thumb at the edge of it, staring at him.

_Make me use it_ , you think. _I dare you._

He frowns. Leans back. Throws a mournful look at his hat and pulls out a strip of yellow fabric. Your fist tightens around the hilt. If he notices, you’re not sure. 

“Yer mean this?” He slaps it down on the table. Traps it under his hand. “Coulda had it without ruining my hat, boss. Ain’t easy to replace.”

You touch your fingers to the soft fabric, brushing against Boxcars in the process. He’s warm. Fingers rough and calloused from his work. His lips quirk up. You like that.

“Real suicide mission yer sent me on. Coulda sworn yer was trying to weed me out.” He looks down to your gun and smiles. You like that a lot.

“Not one fer talking much?” His tone suggests he’s not looking for an answer. You don’t give him one.

Bringing your attention back down to the fabric under your hand you run your fingers along the ripped edge. It’s small, could barely cover your hand, and feels like liquid under your touch. It’s soft as sin, and more than that, it’s real. There’s no faking this kind of texture. It shimmers under your fingertips. A dull gold, fading by the minute. You nod once. Look up at him and smile, razor teeth bared. 

“When can you start?”

His smile grows in response. 

“Thought yer wouldn’t ask,” 


End file.
